works by w.pham

works by william pham, 2005-present

"Guinevere", Chapter 4: Chinese Takeout and a Bottle of Stolichnaya-brand Vodka

J. told me about everything in confidence the last time I saw him. Everything: Morgan, why he had to leave, why he had decided to befriend me. But to really make sense of it, I have to tell things in order, the way they happened.

It turned out that J. went to Londonburger for dinner every night Morgan worked, which was Mondays, Wednesdays, and Thursdays. So every Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday of every week, J. finished preparations for the next day's class then saw Morgan while she was working. It was a Monday when he left with her for the first time. The local independent theater was showing a Hayao Miyazaki triple-feature: "Nausicaa," "Princess Mononoke," and "Spirited Away," all in the original Japanese. I would've gone, as I was a fan of Miyazaki's particular brand of animated storytelling, but I had fallen asleep at my apartment while grading essays. J. and Morgan watched all three films and both agreed that "Nausicaa" had the best storyline of the three, while "Spirited Away" could not be matched in its lush and mystical visuals.

Personally I liked "Princess Mononoke" the best.

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Morgan was a self-described Miyazaki girl, the noble heroine of her own narrative. Though we were all the protagonists (or at least, the main characters) of our own life stories, it was different for her; it was as if she were the sun and all the rest of reality revolved around her. Galileo himself couldn't have accounted for her perspective. But it wasn't really a matter of ego or narcissism or selfishness – she simply viewed everything as if it had been refracted through stained glass, colored by her thoughts. Needless to say, objectivity was somewhat of a problem for her.

But the real problem was this: J.'s perspective was perfectly aligned with hers. He was the only person who could truly and effortlessly empathize with her because he was the only person who saw things the way she saw them: as they pertained to her. Well, all of that may or may not have been a problem if they were the same age, or even remotely close. However, as Fate or Destiny or whoever had arranged it, he was almost twice her age. Neither J.'s nor Morgan's parents could really be blamed for having copulated (accidentally or not) when they did. No one could really blame that single, heroic sperm who managed to fertilize the egg against all odds like the hero of some kind of third-rate Hollywood action movie, and furthermore, J. and Morgan themselves were not at fault for who they were and the circumstances around their meeting.

I guess when it all went wrong in my head, from my perspective, is when J. and Morgan started making choices. Not cereal-brand choices or toothpaste-flavor choices, but real choices with serious weight. If life was a glacier, they became penguins sliding down its face, belly-down, heading straight for the deep and black arctic water.

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After "Spirited Away" ended with the orchestral score resounding through the thin walls of the independent theater, J. asked Morgan if she wanted a ride. She said yes. While riding in his dark blue 2004 Volkswagen Jetta, she mentioned that she was hungry. J. thought about it for a minute or two while driving – and later he told me that it was at this point he felt a crossroads forming in his head, a sort of pivotal moment, like landing on a Chance square in Monopoly. He was standing at a precipice and was about to jump into the darkness.

One of the main differences between J. and I was that J. made that leap of faith; I did not pass "Go," I did not collect $200. The leap went like this: J. suggested to Morgan that they pick up Chinese food along the way and eat it at his apartment. He ordered the Mongolian beef, and she had fried tofu with eggplants and chili peppers. They split an order of steamed rice, picking at it with chopsticks in between pieces of beef or tofu while sitting cross-legged at his coffee table, a tacky yin-yang design from IKEA. But somehow it fit in his apartment, along with the oversized Abbey Road poster, the Pollack reproductions, and an original Gibson 1970 guitar hanging on the wall. His place was otherwise sparsely decorated but had its own singular, bachelor aesthetic, with light blue walls everywhere and pale carpets in the living room, single hallway, and bedroom, and hardwood flooring in the kitchenette. Hanging paper lanterns and standing lamps illuminated most of the living area.

They sat facing each other, with Morgan's back against the couch; J.'s modest television gazed blankly over his shoulder. They ate mostly in silence. They probably made some small talk: school, current events, new movies. They certainly didn't argue and there was probably some not-too-insignificant amount of tension: this was the first time, after all, that they were really alone in private. By this time J. had most certainly already fallen in love, and Morgan may have already developed the crush that would soon bloom into something else entirely.

Once they finished eating, there was another gap in time during which J. mulled over a particular choice. And I want to make this clear: J. was a man of neither malicious intent nor malevolent means. But irregardless he offered Morgan a drink. And she, of her own volition, accepted. J. took the bottle of Stolichnaya-brand vodka that he kept on top of the fridge and fixed two vodka and tonics. They drank, and the atmosphere eased somewhat over time. They talked, conversed, laughed, joked. Morgan asked him to play guitar for her but he admitted that he only had the Gibson for decoration, which she thought was a shame. He agreed with her in full. He swore to her that he would learn how to play guitar. She liked this.

They each had two more vodka and tonics. Somewhere between the second and the third, Morgan admitted to J. that she had never had alcohol before. During the third vodka and tonic Morgan realized J.'s near-mystical compliance with her world-view. And when they had both finished their drinks, she told J. that she felt sick. He ushered her into his bathroom and held her hair while she threw up into the toilet.

"I swear it wasn't the Chinese food," J. said while Morgan retched. She half-laughed, but felt the stomach acid burning her throat, so she stopped. But the damage was done: she was mildly in love now. And she saw absolutely nothing wrong with that. The love grew from a mild one to a moderate one when he forced her to drink water so that she wouldn't feel too bad in the morning, and grew another degree or two when he laid out a sleeping bag, blanket, and pillow on the couch for her, and suggested that she call her parents and tell them she was spending the night at a friend's. There was no sense of impropriety, despite the fact that he was nearly twice her age and her History teacher. When she realized this, what was a healthy and moderate love became dangerously vibrant and strong. And she saw absolutely nothing wrong with that. She wouldn't admit it until later, but when she finally did, J. would agree that there was absolutely nothing wrong with how she felt, mostly because he felt the same way about her.

And I have to admit, despite what common sense and legal code said to the contrary, I didn't really see anything wrong with it either. But I can't exactly say I'm an innocent bystander, or objective in any way. I don't think I need to justify anything, or defend the choices any of us made. But what I want to do is tell their story, and my story as well, and maybe you'll understand something of who they were, who I was, and who I am.

I'm just scratching cave paintings on the walls, really. I owe that much, at least, to J.